


Rewards

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [13]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bae comes clean about his crime. Malcolm's reaction is not what he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewards

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.
> 
> Verse: Don’t Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix
> 
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

Malcolm made him nervous. Maybe it was the way dad spoke of him, implying that he was even worse than mom, or maybe it was the way the old man looked at him, like he was still making up his mind about his grandson, and if Bae didn't pass the test, they'd be out on the streets in the blink of an eye.

The perspective of being once again homeless, hopping from town to town, terrified Baelfire to the bone. His mother was obstinate and cunning. Baelfire couldn't remember one day when she didn't get what she wanted, nor could he forget what happened to Papa when he got in her way. If Malcolm decided he didn't want to help them anymore, then there was no telling what might happen.

Bae hated the idea of having to leave Storybrooke and the security of his grandfather's house, especially when he seemed to be fitting in for the first time since the divorce. Graham and Mulan were nice to him, especially Graham, who tried to make him feel welcomed and included. He was a bit too curious and asked too many questions. Bae spent more time trying to find new ways not to answer them than actually having a conversation, but at least Graham knew when to back off.

Bae would hate to get his dad in trouble now. Malcolm was probably the kind of person who thought a lie was the worst crime of all. Milah was like that, though she was never angry at _him_ , instead holding his face between her hands with a sorrowful look, saying, “Oh, my darling boy, why would you do something so ugly? Did your father put you up to it?” She usually found a way to twist his words so that she could rage at Papa later. He only hoped Malcolm wouldn't do the same.

Mustering all his courage, Bae stood in front of his study. Dad had told him to stay out of his grandfather's way, but perhaps a short meeting wouldn't bother the old man all that much.

He knocked.

After a moment, Malcolm said, “It's open.”

Bae was relieved to hear no enmity in his voice and walked in. He hadn't been to the study before and, the moment he walked in, Bae felt the austerity of the room closing in on him. That was probably the desired effect. Malcolm had covered every wall with books, except for the one behind his desk, where two windows brought in light from the garden. He didn't seem interested in the view, though, too entertained by the papers in front of him. Was he the kind of person who was always working? It was Saturday, he should learn to take a break.

Bae had only ever seen him wearing a suit, but he'd ditched the jacket and the tie today, still looking much more fitting to the ambiance than Baelfire did in his jeans and t-shirt. Whenever his dad walked into the study, he had to wear a suit. Did he have to wear a suit when he was a kid too? Did he feel as intimidated as Bae felt right now?

Malcolm looked up from his papers and seemed surprised to see him standing there.

“Hi. Malcolm. Sir.”

“What is it, laddie?” he asked, looking curiously at him. “Is your dad back already?”

“He's not. Sir.”

“Send him in when he gets here, will you? I cannot make out his handwriting.”

He held up the paper he was reading, which turned out to be one of the lists his father had made that week.

“Which word?” Bae volunteered, trying to be useful. People were less likely to get rid of you if you were useful. Malcolm pointed it out on the paper and Bae squinted at his father's squiggles. “Candlestick. No repairs necessary.”

“I see Junior's handwriting hasn't improved with age,” Malcolm said, without thanking him.

Despite the nerves, Bae chuckled. “Yeah, it takes some getting used to.”

Malcolm put the list aside. “I need to talk to him when he gets back from wherever it is that he went.”

“I'll tell him.”

When Baelfire didn't move from his spot, Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Did you need something?”

_This is it._

“Can we... talk? Sir?”

Malcolm frowned and asked, “What is it you want?”

The question was not hostile, but Bae could hear some caution in his tone, as if his grandfather was expecting him to ask for an arm and a leg. Bae still preferred this to his mother, though. When Milah asked him the same question she sugar-coated it with a sweet tone, pretending anything Baelfire told her couldn't possibly make her angry.

“You can tell me _anything_ , sweetheart. Nothing could make me love you less.”

Bae took in a deep breath and confessed, “Yesterday, I went to see dad at the shop.”

Malcolm shrugged. “You're allowed to see your father, laddie. Just as long as you don't cause trouble. Is that all?”

Bae fiddled with his hands.

Malcolm leaned forward. “Laddie, my time is precious.”

“The vase,” Bae said, so that there was no turning back. “I knocked a vase off a table and it broke.”

Malcolm stared at him, blankly.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he continued, picking up speed but being careful to pronounce each word clearly. “It was an accident. It won't happen again. Dad said it wasn't valuable, but I can still pay for it. I mean, I have no money, but I-”

“Leave it.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Leave it,” Malcolm repeated, leaning back in his chair. “If Junior said it was worthless, then he's probably right. Just be more careful in the future.”

It was Bae's turn to stare blankly.

“Do you need to confess anything else?” his grandfather probed.

“No. Do you... need me to translate anything else?”

Malcolm's mouth twitched, but he didn't smile. “Go play with your cellphone, laddie. Or whatever it is that your generation likes to do.”

“I don't have a cellphone. I like to draw, but I don't have a-”

Malcolm looked up from his papers again, looking annoyed for the first time.

“You have to work, I get it.” Bae started to leave, but allowed himself to linger just one moment longer. “Thank you, Malcolm. For understanding.”

His grandfather gave no indication that he'd heard, but when Bae was nearing the door, he said, “You're a good lad. Very responsible.” His words sounded more like a confirmation than a statement. Bae could even detect a dab of pride in them.

“Thank you, Malcolm,” he said, before scurrying out of the room. Mom had always taught him that it was better to leave when you're ahead.

 

*

 

Belle's father resembled his daughter in nothing. A heavy-framed man, with large hands, and an angry expression on his face that didn't seem to match the lively setting of the flower shop. Moe French came to meet him at the front, where Belle had left him, standing next to the white van with the colorful letters announcing _Game of Thorns_. The older man gave him a look over and decided he didn't like him even before Rumple had the chance to offer his hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. French. I'm-”

“I remember you,” Moe said, and Rumple recognized the hostility in his voice. What followed was no surprise. “You're Gold's son.”

Rumple pulled back his hand and rested it on top of his cane, knowing the other man wouldn't bother shaking it now.

Moe continued, arms crossed over his chest, “If Belle had told me you're the friend who needed a job, I wouldn't have bothered with this meeting.”

Right behind him, Belle said, “Daddy, don't be like that.”

“If it changes anything,” Rumple tried, “I don't get along with him any more than you do.”

“It doesn't. Just as it doesn't change the fact that your father has practically enslaved my daughter-”

“Enslaved,” Belle repeated, rolling her eyes. “You're so dramatic.”

“Or that he showed us no compassion whatsoever when my wife passed away. Tell me something, _Junior_ ,” Moe spat out the name like it was proof that Rumple was nothing more than an extension to his father's cruelty. “What kind of man sends a debt collector to a woman's funeral?”

“A horrible man,” Rumple admitted, rubbing his forehead, distressed. Life was so much easier when people were ignorant of his parentage.

Belle stepped up, insisting, “Dad, you're behaving like an ogre. I already told you, he's got nothing to do with Gold.”

“He's his _son_ , Belle!”

“Do you want to look for another driver?” she said, switching tactics from compassion to greed. “Because you won't find another one in time, especially one that's willing to work for what you pay Gus.”

Moe huffed, but went quiet. After what seemed like an eternity, he told Rumple, “You will have to do, but that doesn't mean I like you. Or your father.”

“Thank you, Mr. French,” Rumple said. The money wouldn't be much, but it'd get them going for another week or so.

“Thank her,” Moe said, walking away from the both of them. “As far as I'm concerned, you and Gold can both go to hell.”

“Dad!”

Moe turned around without sparing his daughter a second glance. After he disappeared inside the flower shop (slamming a door in the process, just to make sure everyone understood he was most certainly _not_ happy about the way things turned out), Belle asked, “How's _your_ dad looking now?”

Rumple ignored her jest, though. “I can find another job, if this will cause any trouble between the two of you-”

“This is nothing,” Belle told him, dismissing his worries. “I love my dad, but he's a stubborn mule when he wants to be. I've been told I take after him. You should have seen how hard it was to convince him to let me take that job with your dad.”

“I don't know, I think your dad might have a point there.”

Belle shook her head. “I can handle myself. The only thing I can't handle is driving this thing.” She slammed a frustrated hand on the side of the van, hitting a cartoon rose. “The stick is always getting stuck and the breaks only work if you _really_ step on it. Will that be a problem? You know, because of the-” She eyed his cane, looking concerned where Felix had looked amused.

“No, not at all. It might bother me at the end of the day, but I'm used to it.”

“Then, that's pretty much it. We start on Monday. You'll drive, I'll hop in and out. And if your leg bothers you, we can take a break. I won't tell dad.”

Rumple smiled. “You're a nice boss.”

“You say that now,” Belle told him, giving him a look full of mischief. “But you just wait until I'm backseat driving next to you. Then you won't find me so nice.”

 

*

 

Rumple walked home with a little lightness to his step. All things considered, this hadn't been a terrible week. He'd started working on the pawnshop, Baelfire seemed to be fitting in well, and now he'd found a job. Short-term and underpaid, yes, but if Moe French could get over his personal hatred for Malcolm Gold, maybe he'd spread a good word around and it wouldn't take him too long before another opportunity came along.

At the very least, he was now sure he could count on Belle. Ever since he moved back to Storybrooke, she'd been nothing but supportive and friendly. Thinking back on the words her father had used (“Your father has practically enslaved my daughter.”), it wasn't hard to figure out why. She probably didn't like to see someone in the same situation as hers. He only wished someone had been as kind to her as she was being to him, then maybe she wouldn't have to work as their maid and could move on to better things. She had to be around twenty years old. A girl that young and that smart should be in school, and not doing chores for the amusement of an old man.

His thoughts dissipated in a cloud of worry the moment he saw Baelfire waiting on the porch, sitting on the front steps with his elbows resting on his knees. That was never a good sign. Whenever Milah was having one of her episodes, he'd get out of the house and wait for him to come back from work, either to calm his mother down, or to calm _him_ down.

Bae looked up when he heard the familiar tapping of his father's cane. Rumple examined his face, expecting to see a bruise, just like the last time he'd find Bae waiting for him in front of their building. However, Bae simply looked up and smiled.

Rumple still asked, “What's wrong? Did grandpa do anything?”

Baelfire frowned. “What? No. It's all good. I just needed some air.”

“Right. Good.”

“What could he have done anyway?”

Rumple ignored the question. “You shouldn't be outside.”

“I just got here. How was it?” he asked, before his father had the time to lecture him on safety again.

“Good. It was good. I got the job.”

“That's awesome!”

“It's a temp job, but it's something.”

“Maybe they'll hire you after that.”

Rumple thought of Moe French and his hostility.

“No, I don't think so. But I'm still glad I've got something to do.”

“By the way, Malcolm wants to talk to you,” Bae said, following him inside. “He can't understand your handwriting.”

“Is he even making an effort?”

“Uhn, dad, in his defense-”

“I know, I know,” he nodded. He'd heard enough criticism on the subject from his father all of his life, and then Milah had picked up where he left.

“Yeah. _And_!”

Rumple turned around. That sounded serious.

“I told him about the vase,” he said, looking as if he wanted a compliment, and while he often commended his son for being honest, this time he didn't.

“I said I'd tell him later, Baelfire.”

“Why? I was the one to knock it down.”

“Bae-”

“He was fine with it. So you don't have to worry anymore.”

“Fine?” Rumple repeated.

“Yes.”

Rumple thought the word over. “Define... _fine_.”

“Like, he told me it didn't matter, that it was worthless anyway, and that I was a good, responsible lad.”

Rumple waited for the punchline.

When his father didn't say anything else, Bae explained, “And that was it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” his father said, looking unimpressed. “But next time, just... let me handle him.”

“Why? It went well. I even think he kinda likes me. Or, at least, he doesn't _hate_ me. So... yay?”

“He doesn't like anybody, Bae.”

Baelfire seemed surprised by the curtness of that answer.

Rumple bit his tongue and decided to think before he opened his mouth again. “What I meant is that...” he searched for something softer, a white lie. “Your grandfather is a difficult man. He might not be in such a good mood every day.”

“Maybe he's changed?” Bae tried, with the hint of a challenge in his voice. “You haven't seen each other in ten years.”

Rumple opened his mouth and he could feel the truth boiling up his throat, beginning to be told. _Because he couldn't stand the thought of you. Because he didn't want to help us raise you_. It would be hard to hear, and it would maybe break his heart, but he was bound to learn that on his own eventually.

“Maybe you're right,” he said. He hadn't heard such an optimistic tone in his son's voice in over a year. “I'll go talk to him. You just... stay away from the porch.”

 

*

 

Malcolm was still in his study. As a child, Rumple remembered wondering, time and time again, if his father ever left it. Even the master bedroom seemed to only be used when he had the company of a lady friend. When he came in, Malcolm was on the phone and greeted him with an exasperated, “Finally! What took you so long?”

“I found a job,” Rumple answered, though he knew it was a rhetorical question.

AS expected, Malcolm didn't seem to care. “Well, congratulations. But we have more pressing matters at hand.”

“Yes, Bae told me,” Rumple said, coming to the desk and collecting the papers he'd brought in the day before. “I'll rewrite this. Should have it done by-”

Malcolm gave him a slap on the back of the hand. “No, no! Put that down, you're messing my system.”

Rumple said, “Ouch!” more out of surprise than pain, and took a step back. “But Bae said-”

“I can handle your handwriting. Are you free now?”

“What for?”

Malcolm rolled his yes. “Are you free or not?”

“I suppose-”

“Excellent.” On the phone, he said, “Ella, he's coming to you immediately. English cut, either black or navy. No, actually, make one black and one navy. None of his suits are any good. The lad can have a black one. No, brown is just ridiculous. I don't care what they're wearing in New York, that city is full of gays and hippies.”

Malcolm continued to rave on, too busy debating New York City's pool of depravity with Ella to spare him a glance. Rumple waited, knowing better than to leave before being dismissed. He wondered how he could convince his father that both of the suits he'd brought with him were just fine. Both of his jobs, so far, would consist of driving an old van and cleaning a pawnshop. Instead of demanding a better suit, he should be ordering some overalls.

“Yes, yes, I know. And I don't care. Just do what you're paid to do.” Malcolm hung up the phone. Rumple could hear a female voice protesting, right before it was cut off. To him, Malcolm said, “Ella is waiting for you and the kid. She's handsy, you're going to like her.”

An address was scribbled quickly and pushed into his hand.

“Ella?”

“Ella Feinstein. She's my designer. She's awaiting the both of you right now to take your measurements.”

Rumple winced, the thought of one week or hard-earned wages slipping through his fingers before they had even been paid. This had to be a punishment. He hadn't appreciated Bae coming into his office with a crime to confess, and now he was bullying them into spending what little money they had buying something they didn't need.

“Thank you, but I'm fine,” Rumple said, ready to put his foot down.

Malcolm looked at him with impatience. “I don't know what your new job is, but you can't show up on Monday wearing that.” He raised his eyebrows at his son's suit and tie. “And there's already talk of you being my son, you have a reputation to maintain. And doesn't your son have a party or something?”

“Bae too?”

“Of course. I've seen what he wears. Just today he came in here wearing a t-shirt.” Malcolm frowned his nose at the thought of it. “Honestly, haven't you taught the lad anything?”

“Dad,” Rumple said, trying to sound sensible, “I can't afford three suits right now.” _Or ever._ “Can't you just be flexible?”

“It's on me,” Malcolm answered, with simplicity.

“I can't pay you back, as you well know. And I don't want to add something so frivolous to my tally.”

“Frivolous,” Malcolm repeated, snorting at the word. “What did that girl put in your head. Suits aren't _frivolous_ , Junior. They're a necessity. A good suit sets a man apart.”

“Either way-”

“And I'm not adding it to your tally. They're a gift.”

Rumple looked at his father, but Malcolm began rearranging the papers on his desk, acting as if offering something so generous was just part of his every-day routine.

“A gift?” Rumple repeated.

“Yes. Free of charge. Go crazy.”

“What... I... why?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Neal deserves something nice. He's a brave laddie. Very honest, too.”

“Yes,” Rumple agreed. “Yes, he is.”

“He came in here and confessed what he'd done,” Malcolm said, pointing at where Rumple was standing. The memory of it seemed to amuse him. “He was terrified. He almost looked like you at that age.”

“Right,” he nodded, not sure of what Malcolm was trying to imply.

“But he still did it. Instead of hiding behind you, he came in here and he owned up to his mistakes, like a man.”

“So you... want to reward my son for telling the truth.”

“Junior, if you're going to disapprove of everything I do-”

“I don't,” Rumple said, looking shocked. “I actually... surprisingly... think it's... nice,” he admitted, cautious.

Malcolm spread his arms, like a savior welcoming a lost soul. “I am a nice person! You'd notice that if you weren't too busy being defensive.”

“But my suits-”

“Call it a late birthday gift. Actually, ten years worth of birthday gifts. Considering Ella's prices, it's actually fair.”

Rumple stared at his father, expecting him to grow a second head.

“You should go now, Junior. Ella is a busy woman.”

“Right,” Rumple said, still overwhelmed. “I should go.” Then, a thought occurred to him. Just to check. “Dad?”

“You're still here?”

“I just have a question. When is my birthday?”

Malcolm looked up from his desk and at his son, caught by surprised by that question. His eyebrows weredrawn together, first in confusion as he tried to make sense of his inquiry, and then in anger, when he realized he had no idea, and his nice guy act could only take him so far.

“I thought so,” Rumple said, feeling relieved as the world started making sense again. “Still, thank you for the suits.”

 


End file.
